


His Pussy

by PrinceNux



Category: Supernatural, destiel - Fandom
Genre: And I just cannot write John Winchester as a good father, And proud to be bisexual, Because he is trash and abusive and a piece of poop, I made Dean trans, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceNux/pseuds/PrinceNux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester. 21 years old. Seasoned alcoholic. FtM transgender. Pre everything. Just starting T. Very bisexual and very sassy and sick of cis/het shit. </p><p>A lot of my own inner turmoil and anger and depression are poured, unfiltered, into this fan-fic. It's pretty damn personal, and how I cope with shitty things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Period Blues

**Author's Note:**

> There are a host of trigger warnings in this work. Such as: self harm, suicide mentions and attempts, past and present abuse, alcoholism, depression, anxiety, PTSD, psychiatric wards, therapy, and possibly some others.
> 
> So, I haven't worked on this since February 13th of this year. Yeah. That's kinda lame and my fault and my stupid and fucked up crazy noggin. But, this work was started in 2015, and my thinking was that, in posting this work on here, I would be motivated to start working on this again. 
> 
> So, like, help me out, ya'll.

Dean Winchester, having just woken up from a jack and NyQuil induced black out, looks down at the sticky red mess in his boxers. He curses, and contemplates drinking until he can't remember that he is the unfortunate possessor of a vagina. But, no. Sammy would freak if he saw his brother's sheets all messy and red. Usually that only happened after a hunt. The dreaded period was something that was kept quiet from the youngest Winchester. For obvious reasons. Sammy agreed to ignore the toilet paper cocoons hiding spent pads as long as Dean occasionally bought him a personal copy of Busty Asian Beauties. 

Sighing, Dean strips out of his sullied boxers, and steps into the bathtub. He entertains the idea of taking a bath, because, hell, the jets would feel like heaven on his cramping back and stomach. But, no, he really doesn't wanna sit in a big puddle of his own blood. Niagara Falls between his legs when he gets out of the shower is more than enough for one day, thank you very fucking much. 

He turns the water on. First, so cold that it feels like icicles being drilled into his tender skin, then, with a flick of the wrist, he cranks it up to scalding. The water is so hot that he yelps when he turns around and it comes into contact with his back and ass. 

Squeezing a generous amount of his stereotypically masculine smelling body wash into his calloused hands, he angrily scrubs the dried blood off the inside of this thighs. Not daring to go any deeper than the bristly hairs that cover his genitals, he scrubs the blood from them, too, then sinks down to the floor of the bathtub. 

Dropping his pounding head into shaking hands, he lets himself fall over onto his side, and just lays there, trembling, under the punishing sting of the water.  Breathing through his mouth so he can't smell the blood going down the drain, though he can fucking taste it, he watches the water turn from clear to pink and back to clear.

Dean only gets out of the shower when Sammy pounds on the door, and yells at him to please get out of the bathroom before he gets even more worried and calls someone. Dean doesn't know who the "someone" is. Dad doesn't answer his phone, having gone AWOL a few weeks ago, and he's an adult, so Sam can't admit him to the hospital without his consent. Which, he doesn't even know why he'd be admitted for spending maybe three, or so, hours in the shower. It's not a crime to grieve the way that his body betrays him every goddamn month.

Still, he is glad that Sam doesn't understand the pain and embarrassment and invalidation of having a period. It's just another reminder that he's wrong. 


	2. The Blood to My Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big trigger warnings for self-harm and depression in this chapter. It isn't really necessary to read this chapter if there is a possibility that it will trigger you. Keep yourself safe. 
> 
> This chapter was pretty much a vent, and, in the midst of my self-harm down spiral due to depression and abuse and other shit, I wrote down what I wished I could do to myself, and had Cas do it to himself. 
> 
> I am at least three or four months into my recovery from self-harm, and haven't relapsed at all. 
> 
> However, there are still going to be very strong elements of self-harm and self-destruction in this story. 
> 
> Again, if this type of story triggers you, please feel free to not read it at all. I want you to stay safe.

Castiel, having left work early, now sits on his bed in his dingy little studio-apartment, pencil sharpener blade held in a shaky hand. He contemplates cutting his knuckles, maybe then someone will notice and ask him what's wrong with him. But, no. Him, and the other doctors, had to sign confidentiality slips that said, "they promise not to intervene unless another doctor is literally bleeding to death." Like, seriously. That's what it says. Castiel liked the phrase so much, he framed it and hung it above his toilet. 

Eyes slightly out of focus from lack of sleep, Castiel ponders why he is still alive. His death wouldn't hurt anybody. He's still a virgin, probably gonna die one. No nice girl to bring home to the rents. No late night booty calls. All he does is work. And hurt himself. All over his body. Thousands upon thousands of scars. Layers of them up and down his arms, on the inside of his thighs, up and down his legs. Even on his toes. 

He's becoming worried that, soon, he's going to run out of places to cut. An addict's biggest fear. Not having the room on their body to destroy themselves any further. But, it's not like he can just quit. It's been too long. From 10 to 24. Setting down the blade, he tallies off the years on his nimble fingers. The answer is less than satisfactory. 14 years. 14 fucking years. He lets out a sigh of disgust.

However, this realization doesn't make him put the blade down. It makes him want to hurt himself ever more. Picking the blade back up, this time in his right hand, and brings it down onto his clavicle. It doesn't jut out as much as it used to, when he stopped eating and lost all the weight. His clavicle is comfortably nestled in just the right amount of skin. He doesn't look like a fragile little porcelain doll. His coworkers don't offer to give him their lunches anymore. Not that he would eat them. 

Gritting his teeth, he drags the blade across his collarbone, leaving an angry red line in the blade's wake. After cutting horizontally on his other collarbone, he moves on to his left wrist. Before this unfortunate relapse, he hadn't cut for two months. But, he could literally feel the sting of fresh cuts all over his body, all the time. It haunted him. Worse than anything. He had nightmares and daymares about it. So, you really can't blame him for losing it a little bit. 

It's like trying to stop smoking after 30 years. You're able to quit for a little while. You gain back some weight, and it doesn't feel like your lungs are gonna collapse all the time. They're not black and crusty anymore. But you can still taste the nicotine in the back of your throat. Coating your yellowed teeth. And then, after stopping for maybe, 3 years, you get enough money to buy a pack. You go and buy the pack, and you chain smoke it. Lighting cigarette after cigarette. One off the other. Until the pack is gone. Then, you hate yourself a little bit more. But, you can't wait to do it again. 

By the time that he comes back to himself, the sheets are spotted with bright, free, red red red, blood. Shaking his head to clear the self-destructive fog from in-between his ears, he gets up and puts the blade back with it's other playmates, before going to get himself cleaned up. 

Once Castiel is in the bathroom, he turns on the light, and, painfully taking off his shirt, looks down at the newest wave of damage that he's done to himself. Blood from his clavicle is dripping down his chest, outlining his nipple in red, like an icing rose on a wedding cake. Grabbing a washcloth, already well pas blood stained and into mostly threadbare, he wets it with warm water, before setting to work angrily scrubbing the blood off his chest and arm. 

When he's done, the whole bathroom smells like blood. But, he notes with a sigh of relief that none of the wounds are going to need stitches. However, his arm does need to be bandaged. Letting out another sigh, this one of annoyance, Castiel grabs the roll of bandages from under his sink and goes to work on his arm. First, he douses his arm in hydrogen peroxide. He may want to destroy himself, but he certainly doesn't want to die of infection, ya know? Next, a strip of gauze, all the way around his arm, followed by two layers of bandages. He clips the bandages together, calls it a night, and stumbles out of the bathroom.

Laying down in his bed, favoring his left side and sleeping on his right, he tells himself he'll clean up the blood on the floor tomorrow, and falls into a fitful, painful, sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Yeah, I know that Mary's acceptance of Dean's being a boy was pretty sudden, but, I honestly feel that she would be the kind of mother to do that. She just wants her baby to be happy. And, I wrote Mary's reaction of how I wished my mother's had been when I came out as transgender.

 

Marissa Winchester was born on January 24th, 1995, to Mary and John Winchester. Marissa was a healthy baby girl with bright green eyes, a smattering of freckles on her face and shoulders, and almost comical bowlegs.

Mary held her little girl as John stroked calloused fingers gently over Marissa's cheek and dirty blond hair, smiling softly down at his family.

The new parents took their daughter home with them the next day, and Mary just glowed with joy and love as she dressed Marissa in little dresses and put bows in her little girl's hair.

They were a happy family until Marissa was almost a year old, and had just started to form sentences that were more words than baby babble.

Mary was in the kitchen, making lunch for her and the baby, when a little voice from the living room exclaimed, "boy!"

Switching off the burner to let the man n' cheese cool, she went into the living room, and, sitting down next to Marissa asked her daughter, 'what boy, sweetie?"

Looking up at her mother, a twinkle of happiness in those wide green eyes, Marissa pointed a chubby finger at herself and answered, "me boy!"

Oh god, Mary thought, feeling her stomach drop.

With the sparkle leaving her daughter's eyes, Mary swooped the sniffling child up into her arms and beamed, "well, you're going to need a new name then, aren't you, my love?"

Marissa instantly lit up again, nodding enthusiastically.

Tapping her chin with a finger, Mary asked, "do you have any ideas?"

Marissa nodded again, saying happily, "Dean!"

Mary laughed, agreeing that Dean was a very nice name and it fit him well.

Mary put Dean to bed early that night, before John got home, not wanting to subject her child to the angry outburst that was sure to happen.

What happened, hours later, could surely be classified as an "outburst," but Mary thought that, "screaming match" might have been a better describing word.

As Mary had expected, John was very against the idea of calling their little girl a boy's name, and referring to her as a boy. Mary held fast, calmly repeating that their child's personal happiness and self-acceptance was more important that whatever "image" John had going for himself.

John stormed out of the house, slamming the door hard enough behind him that Dean was woken up by the sound.

As he lay there in bed, eyes squeezed shut, repeating his new name over and over to keep from crying, he knew deep down in his heart that he was the reason John had gotten so angry. 


End file.
